Struggle
by Sher May
Summary: They fight for a love all along theirs. ByakuRuki.
1. Struggle

**Struggle**

She wishes she could turn around one day and escape from the whole lot of senseless, _senseless_ stupidity that seemed to have taken over and governed her life.

She wants to run away and maybe come back a different person, someone she believes to be imperfect yet closer to a vague standard of beauty than where she currently stands. She wants many things, and she wans to be better, more sane, more beautiful, less crass, more refined, more sophisticated, less loud, more charming, and everything she knows is good for him and what she assumes he wants.

She detests herself.

She looks in the mirror and all she sees staring back at her is not her own reflection but a fragment of her sister's soul surviving on the earth, using her worthless body as a vessel. She knows that sometimes, in the midst of his despair, at his lowest point of hopelessness, he thinks and wishes he isn't her, that she was who it was he loved most and married first.

She knows this because sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he thinks she is asleep and her eyes remain closed with no reason to dissuade him from that notion, he cries out her name with such intensity and longing her heart aches and twists in her breast and she knows, she knows, that she will never, ever, _ever_ be able to fill in the too-large shoes of her dead sister.

And that's enough to make her want to

Scream.

Her heart and mind is filled with a twisted longing, bestial in nature, and that is what keeps their love alive. That she know it is so wrong for them to act this way, yet they continue do this in defiance of all the laws that govern their stilted lives.

But rebellions have their own prices, and her continuously pays her toll with the cutting knowledge that she means nothing to him. She believes herself to have no place in his life - her opinions count for nothing, her face does not belong to her, she is not good for him in any sense of the word - and she knows he doesn't love her, he loves what she represents to him.

He is beauty incarnate, the very essence of all that was desirable condensed into a living form.

She hears the rumors and whispers behind slightly ajar doors, all excited in low, hardly muffled voices, centering around his apparent perfection and she smiles a secret, bitter smile to herself - he is hers, yet he does not belong to her. He belongs to no one. He belongs to everyone.

His existence is not for himself, it is for Soul Society. He lives to protect it, to uphold his family honor, and to nod and frown at meetings when the captains gathered to challenge each other over time consuming issues.

In the dark expanse of the night, she plays a game. As her raven locks splay themselves across her face, she shifts herself and wonders what it is that he says to Senbonzakura every time they lay together amid the tall grass in the garden. She hopes one day he will put in her just a slight fraction of the trust he instills in his sword.

And as stupid as it sounds, she is jealous of Senbonzakura. She wants to be the one he goes to for comfort, for knowledge. The one he cannot live without, the one he fights his battles with. The one strong enough to help him defeat his enemies and accomplish his dreams, the one gentle enough to help him sort through the hassles and frustrations of Soul Society.

She hates herself. She hates the person she sees reflected in the mirrors of the hallway and the person she sees reflected in his eyes whenever they turn towards her with a restricted longing. She hates her loud voice, her rash decisions, her lack of judgment, the fact that she never seems to be able to protect herself, that everyone looks at her like a burden that needs to be protected.

Her insecurity extends far beyond him, growing like an unstoppable vine, coiling itself around every aspect of her life. She thinks she isn't good enough, and a single word from him on another woman is enough to make her spin wildly out of control, as envy and panic takes over her countenance. And from there, her thoughts build themselves tracks as she inspects her appearance, her friends, her character - and she just wants to scream and scream until everything disappears and she is left pristine and perfect - good enough for him.

Kuchiki Rukia looks at nothing, drifting at the very edges of sanity.

They share a relationship so close they no longer need the useless hurdle of words. Words are easy to fumble with, picking out the right ones to share what the speaker has in mind. They have no use of it. But even then, he knows what she means. He knows it to be true, for Senbonzakura never lies, not to him. However -

He refuses to believe it. He refuses to believe as it is beyond his comprehension that Rukia - beautiful, perfect Rukia! - could possibly fail to understand that all he desires in the world were found in her. And that he knew nothing in the world he could do would possibly make his tainted self worthy of her love. He often wonders why she bothers loving him - does she not find it bothersome?

She could have her choice of so many others: Ichigo and Renji have surely not disguised in the least their longing for her. Yet she chose him, over all possible objections and backlashes should their relationship ever be found out. He knows and understands the sacrifice she makes, and even if he does not understand it, even if he is not sure when she will choose to let him go, he wants to treasure every single moment of their twisted, fragile love.

Kuchiki Byakuya is willing to fight her battles for her, forever and for all eternity, in return for her warm embrace when he returns home.

And so they dance together to a tune only the two of them can hear, confusing each other and everyone watching as they struggle to retain a love _so_ obviously theirs.

* * *

A/N: I have a morbid fascination for this couple. I really don't know why.

Oh well. Read and review if you enjoyed it. Or constructive comments if you didn't.

* * *


	2. Desire

**Desire**

Rukia is tired.

She is tired of running, of chasing after a dream that seems so far away, of trying so hard to stay on top of things when life was just moving too fast for her to keep up.

She had enough of trying to predict what would happen next, enough of locking herself in her room as she struggled with the overwhelming guilt and disgust at herself in doing something so blatantly wrong.

She does not want anymore of the shattered self-esteem at the scathing comments from others on her own unattractiveness, she does not want the delusions and worry that cloud her judgment and cause her to panic over every single moment of his absence.

She wants to escape, to run and run and run away, to never look back so she will never have to look at the unholy mess she has created of the whole thing.

So she leaves.

Her decision is not an easy one, and as her hand steadies itself above her tears, she can feel the agony tearing her apart, piece by piece, eating away at her bruised heart from the inside. Her poor, battered heart, scarred beyond help, half rotted from needless despair and sickeningly green with senseless envy.

Her tears proceed to wet the paper she holds in her hands, and she furiously swipes them away, even as she crumples up the worthless letter and throws it into the bin, to join a mountain of failed attempts at putting her mixed up feelings into words.

She wonders how she can make it sound better, how she can avoid hurting him, as if he will even care. She tried to put it into an ineligible letter, to disguise her true meaning with flowery words and strange sounding vocabulary, but her lack of experience at writing such words doomed that attempt to a failure.

She tried to sound brusque, to hide her pain with short, sharp sentences, to shatter any of his thoughts that maybe this decision was one that she knew she would regret her whole life, yet had no other choice but to follow through this path of unbelievable pain.

She tried and failed, tried again, and failed again. And then she tore apart the fragile sheet, as her heart spilled over her pale skin, and her fingers proceeded to carve onto the paper the bitter truth in damningly black ink. It was like a salve, the truth, soothing her wounds and causing them to hurt even more than ever as she forced herself to continue. Something about it was just so cleansing she couldn't seem to stop.

She thanks him for the joy he'd given her the past few months, and she admits to her own fear of being found out, something they both knew each other experienced yet never wanted to say out. She can imagine the censure she will face should that ever happen, and she shrinks away from the thought of the angry, hurting words that would be thrown at them.

She talks of her pain and the unbearable sense of loss she knows she will face.

And she talks of regret.

She assures him of her love, and she wishes him good luck.

To the one person who always seemed to know what she was thinking, because, despite their differences and upbringing, seemed to care about the same things as the other.

To the one person who could send her into delirious states of happiness so intense, it was almost as if she was drunk, and she would do and say the most ridiculous things just to gain a speck of his attention.

To the one person she never seemed to acknowledge outside of the stony four walls of their deadened mansion, other than the perfunctory shows of respect that was required of their social standing.

To the one person who never seemed to mind, no matter what she did and how she did it, who always seemed so ready and willing to forgive any of her transgressions, whom she did not have to fear even if she had broken every single last law of the Kuchiki's.

To the one person who never demanded anything of her, who didn't expect her to fulfill any of his ambitions or goals, who had not asked her for anything more than what she would give him, even if she wanted from the bottom of her heart to be of even a little tiny use to him.

To the one person whom she never dared to fantasize of, yet somehow caught herself daydreaming about how it blissful it would be to be able to be with him forever and ever, to all eternity.

To the one person who's love she could never ascertain, who never expressed his love in the slightest detail, causing her to treasure every scrap of affection he showed her, to stash it away in the arrears of her mind, because it really was so precious and so worthy.

To the one person she never seemed to be able to describe in full detail, because he was all so beautiful and wonderful at one time, and no matter what she said, she never seemed to be able to say everything else.

It really is so difficult to describe someone.

It really makes it all the more difficult to describe the one you love.

He was so beautiful. He gave her a joy nothing else seemed to measure, but she wanted more.

She wanted freedom and a reason to return home if just to receive a warm smile and hug from someone, and not the distinct coldness of her household. She wanted carefree smiles and unburdened laughs, and ice cream and foods that were deemed inappropriate for a noble.

She wanted happiness and mutual respect and not the barely veiled disapproval she met everywhere she turned. She wanted to run around and be happy and to watch the sunsets with a smile and to be able to walk and run and fly. She wants to be able to laze around in bed. She wants to wake up late and give the world the finger. She wants to get away from the constant pressure that perfection is everything the world needs.

She wants to smile and she wants to laugh and she wants to sing and she wants to play and she wants to run away screaming, screaming, screaming, because every second without him if so painful; oh-so-painful; and she can't take it anymore, no no no no no she can't.

She wants to give him freedom and a reason to return home if just to receive a warm smile and hug from her, to release him from the distinct coldness of his household. She wants him to have carefree smiles and unburdened laughs, and to taste ice cream and foods that were deemed inappropriate for a noble.

She wants him to know happiness and mutual respect and not just unquestioned deference to everything he says just because he is the heir. She wants him to run around and be happy and to watch the sunsets with a smile with her. She wants him to be able to walk and run and fly. She wants him to be able to laze around in bed, to be free of all the compulsory meetings. She wants him to be able to wake up late and give the world attitude. She wants him to be able to escape from a world who constantly pressures him into giving it his all, because it is his duty and he can't escape from it.

She wants him to smile and to laugh and to sing and to play and she wants him to do it because she is there, she is there, and she wants to be his world so that nothing else matters and all he needs is her.

She knows that will never happen.

So she leaves.

The paper rustles and flutters to the floor.

* * *

A/N: Didn't really like how the story was going at first, but I guess it turned out kinda alright in the end.

Thanks for the reviews! Do keep them coming.

Rukia.mas: Thanks! Intended to keep the story one-shot at first, but later decided to continue with it.

Pure Essence: Thanks! And thanks for the heads up on the reviews. Didn't realize I did that. Have enable anonymous review already.

* * *


	3. Hate

Hisana, Hisana.

Everyday he thought of her, of the mistakes he made, of his stupidity, of how, single handedly, he had killed the one person he wanted more than anything to protect.

He thought of her everyday, and each thought was like a spear, piercing into his heart, leaving behind fresh wounds over open scars. Livid, angry scars, dark and ugly, taking claim over whatever it was that he once was.

It had all been a mistake, everything, since the first day he had set his eyes on her.

_He still remembered, the first time he saw her face, the exquisite beauty of her dark, cerulean eyes, her porcelain like skin, the ebony lengths of wavy black hair. Those features, coupled with her delicate manner, served to conjure an air of fragility over the girl, the feeling of how a slight touch might shatter her, a word, more harshly spoken than intended would damage her, cracking that brittle veneer of courage and send her weeping._

_It was such the feeling that Hisana had projected to him, the very first time he had lain his eyes on her, as he walked through the streets of one of the most violent in the whole of Rukongai, and he remembered, briefly wondering how it was such a fragile object could have survived in a place where death was commonplace, where violence, anger and murder created such a stench in the air that it hurt to breathe._

_He had just returned from the world of the living, and his face, cold, expressionless as always, hid all that he thought and felt, yet the slight lilt in his stride, absent on usual days, betrayed the slight glory and satisfaction he had been basking in._

_He had just purified five Hollows, a feat he knew he deserved to be proud of, and so, he allowed himself the slight indulgence of satisfaction he would normally have denied._

_And then he saw her, and all thoughts of his greatness left his mind._

_The single, brave front of survival and fragility she extended humbled him, leaving him speechless with shame._

Sometimes in the night, when he was wrecked with guilt, he tried to come up with reasons, anything else to blame, as to why Hisana wasn't here, with him, alive, smiling and telling him once more how much she loved him.

His fault. All his fault, and a hundred excuses would never mask such a truth, for he knew it in the deepest depths of his heart that it was – true.

He had been selfish. His interests first, above all else, above family, above Soul Society, and above her.

And yet, such thought to him, to the one who had loved her the most, were unbearable, and everyday, every waking moment he scouted for someone, anyone, whom he might deposit all his anger and sadness and gnawing longing and guilt on, someone he could blame, whom he could hate, with the deepest core of his being, to assuage all that he felt and could hardly bare, for someone – anyone!- to share with him the burden of being at fault for the dearth of hope, of light, and the exquisite smell of cherry petals.

It was her.

His resentment found it's own victim in the form of her sister.

It had been her! It was not him. Her! The one who had consumed Hisana, bit by bit till she was no longer recognizable as the women he had fallen headlong into love with. She had devoured her own sister, even while she was still alive, everyday, every moment stealing bits of her from him as he fought against her almost-omnipresent existence.

He had struggled, he had wrestled, and he had lost.

Lost! Lost Hisana to the depths of shadow from where she would never return, lost with nothing but an empty promise he had no intention to keep, of sickening memories he could never relive, to remember her by.

He hated her.

From the very depths of his soul he hated her sister for all that she had done to them, how she had overpowered them, how she had defeated them.

And for years the cloud of hatred hung over his head, bending it towards his work and duty to the station in which he had been born.

He no longer dared to put his own desires first, subduing them for fear that another tragedy may occur, for hadn't his lack of judgment already proved fatal to all he held dear?

And even as he buried himself in work to ease the aching pain, nothing would numb his hate.

Until he saw her.

Cerulean eyes, porcelain skin, ebony locks – and an indomitable spirit not the least feigned, real beyond imagination, one that could not be crushed by guilt or the loss of a sister.

And in ignorance, her charm was – irresistible.

She did not smell of cherry blossoms,

But it did not matter.

His hate had disappeared in a waft of jasmine petals.


	4. Knowledge

**Knowledge**

She is his anchor.

With little effort on her part, by just being her, she succeeds in anchoring him firmly into harsh reality. She anchors the smell of cherry petals into his senses, reminding him of his responsibilities even when Senbonzakura cannot. She anchors the little impression of sanity into the dregs of his tired mind. And most of all, against all their wishes, and for their own good, she anchors in him a memory of the person who tied them together with her death, who keeps them firmly together with a common pain.

He appreciates what she does, more than he could ever transcribe into words, and he shudders at the thought of a life without her. He can barely remember a time without her, or the person who so closely resembles her yet is not her, except for the vague horror of loss, torture, and above all, pain. He appreciates what she does, even while she herself cannot fully understand what she does for him.

At the back of his mind, he is aware of the pressure he is putting on her. He knows the faint bonds of duty that keep her tied into place, and he understands that the smallest shock could send her careening into a world of delusions and sin.

He believes himself to be enough. He hopes he is enough. He wishes he was enough. Everyday, he tries so hard to be enough. Yet even then, he knows that what he gives her is insufficient. He knows she wants more, but he does not know how to give it to her.

There are many things Byakuya does not understand.

He does not understand the importance of power. He does not understand why so many are so willing to kill, to inflict hurt and pain just for some semblance of power. How people could feel so damn satisfied at ordering another around. He would willingly give up all the power accorded to him with his office in exchange for just one of the sincere smiles she gives so easily to her friends, yet seems so reluctant to grant him with.

The heir of the Kuchikis finds his power useless where it cannot give Rukia happiness.

He does not understand how Rukia could possibly fail to notice how all the small things she does for him – leaving a single sakura blossom on his bed for him to find when he returns to the manor after a fight with a hollow, reaching up to help him adjust his kenseikan just before he leaves for the human world – how she fails to notice how much he treasures these scraps of affection, and how it is what he is eternally grateful for.

He does not understand why she always seems bent over with burdens whenever he sees her, as though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders the moment she stepped into the cold, heartless, broken manor.

He does not understand why she takes such a fancy to wearing his captain haori. She thinks he does not know how she enjoys draping the too large garment over her shoulders whenever she believes him asleep, how much she loves lying in bed with it for hours on end till the first light of day breaks, when she hurriedly replaces it into his wardrobe and scurries back into her room before he wakes. Still, he is willing to bequeath his entire wardrobe to her if it means her happiness for those few moments.

He does not understand why she pretends she does not notice it when her hand brushes past his when she hands him a cup of tea or a packet of fruit juice she brings back from the real world, which he does not care for, but pretends to enjoy anyway, just to please her.

He does not understand why she hides in a corner of the room whenever he returns from a mission, as he is doing now, as if she was afraid of something, as if she had to assess and gauge the situation before daring to timidly walk into the room and acknowledge his presence.

He looks up, expecting to see her standing shyly in the corner like she always did, and is surprised to see the spot she normally occupies empty. He knows she was not on a mission, and wonders why she has diverted from her normal routine.

His eyes, sharp when spotting hollows, yet pitifully blind at the needs of his little sister, notices the paper lying innocently on the ground, covered in Rukia scrawling penmenship. He bends down to pick it up before the wind does, eyes widening in shock even as he reads what is on it.

He is frozen, blithely unaware of the cold breeze entering the room, of his own fingers curling into a fist, crushing the scrap of paper, of everything except how his body seems to have ceased being his, of the waves of panic and nausea sweeping over his entire being. And that is how the few words, replaying like a bad record in his mind, find him over and over again, hanging over the edges of sanity.

_I'm sorry._

_We both know it would never have worked out._

_I love you._

_Rukia._

Byakuya turns towards the exit of the manor.

He runs.

* * *

UPDATE:

Big thank you to Jolly Big Sis for pointing out my error! Just corrected it. Embarrassing, that was. Heh :)

Well I've disappeared for so long cos my com was down.

Now that it's sort of back up, look forward to more frequent updates! That is, if you enjoy reading this. Ah, assuming things now, aren't we?

So I took a few initiatives of my own last chapter by saying that Rukia smelled of Jasmine petals, cos she kind of reminds me of Kaoru in Samurai X, what with the age and forbidden relationship and protective/sword flashing lover and all.

This chapter was actually something I wrote awhile ago, and I thought it was quite good when I reread it today. So, comment if you liked it(or not)! :)

Love!


	5. Hope

**Hope**

Dark cloudy skies depress her.

They herald the coming of rain. Of dark gray droplets splashing onto equally dark grounds. Of a day that would pass by, unused, indoors.

Even the thought of her treasured jasmine blossoms having a refreshing drink was hardly enough to lift the corners of her mouth into a contemplative smile.

Therefore, it wasn't unusual to find Kuchiki Rukia sitting with a forlorn expression, staring longingly at the soggy grounds she cannot venture into on a cold, cloudy day, mid-spring, of all times.

Perhaps her disappointment at the day being ruined was infectious, or perhaps it was just a vague, common angst regarding the weather, but the household seemed to share in her lackluster mood, despite most of the servants simply treating her as a piece of the window ornaments that day.

Something about her dejected posture spoke to Byakuya, prompting him to say something – anything, really – in an attempt to lighten the load on her shoulders, a load that seemed to suddenly begin to crush his lungs as he stared at her. Something about her sadness seemed so real, so tangible, the very air seemed to grow heavy even as she sighed for the umpteenth time.

His tongue twists in an attempt to draw the words out, and his mind, so clever when it comes to a hundred ways in spotting the weaknesses of a hollow, was a clear blank.

"Rukia."

He could have slapped himself.

It's rare to find Kuchiki Byakuya plunging headlong into a perilous situation without a plan clearly thought out in his mind, but that was exactly what he seems to be doing right now.

Still – too late.

Her head snaps back, her feet shuffles on the floor as she, with a thousand years of discipline engraved into her spine, jumps to attention involuntarily at the sound of that voice.

Once again he wonders what the hell he has done, bringing her into this hellhole of a hundred different gestures that mean nothing but could destroy everything.

But she is waiting. There is no time for musing, for self-deprecation, for her cerulean eyes seem to demand an explanation for his graceless puncture into her depressing thoughts, which should have been hers alone, both by right and royal decree.

The first thing.

That comes into mind.

"What's wrong?"

Isn't always the most logical course of action to follow, really.

Her eyes are narrowed into slits, and he is forcibly reminded of another person, another one, someone who annoys the crap out of him, who uses the same expression in sizing up the situation, or when he spots an unfortunate mistake on the part of the Kuchiki noble.

Somehow, at that moment, Rukia's expression of suspicion brought to mind the sneering face of Ichimaru Gin, as he prepares for a brutal verbal attack at one of the rare lapses in Byakuya's conduct, which often leave him shaking in suppressed desire to lop the man's stupid smiling face right off his shoulders.

Not a very pleasant thought.

The look is quickly replaced with her normal expressionless one, and the voice that answers in monotone is quietly crafted into revealing –

"Nothing, Byakuya nii-sama."

And now his mind is a blank.

No response is required of him, yet there is an understated pressure for him to reply with words that would elevate the tension in the situation, to lighten the atmosphere. This had to be thought out very carefully, with precision, with the utmost care and consideration reminiscent of that which is reserved for hollow exterminations…

"Would you like to go out, Rukia?"

This time, his hand even twitched in preparation for the well deserved slap, and it was only how her fragile features rearranged themselves into one of hope that saved his cheek from a stinging.

"It's raining."

You would think that, being a captain, he would be trusted with an ability to perceive the obvious, but no. He had to be denied even that, and the irritating fact was that it didn't irritate him as much it should have.

"That, Rukia, is apparent, and easily remedied."

Why not?

It wasn't as if his previous actions had been something easily understood or purposeful, and yet the day was shaping up rather nicely, and he could almost smell the potential in it. So he acts on his first impulse, crushing her tiny hand in his and dragging her along the corridor into their gray garden.

The droplets fall with a vengeance, and within minutes they are soaked. Rukia turns accusing eyes at her brother, the one who always asked her to see sense, to act sensibly, to be sensible.

Who was the one who seemed sorely lacking in it now?

"Easily remedied, Rukia." He repeats, and with a tug, his scarf, his _ginpaku kazahana no uzuginu, _unbelievably valuable, unbelievably coveted scarf, the one that could build a dozen houses the size of the Kuchiki manor, was resting over her shivering shoulders – the most expensive raincoat in the world of the living, and the one beyond.

Taking advantage of her mute disbelief, he draws from deep within the caverns of his cloak a packet of – something. He shakes it out into his hands, kneels down, and with those long, delicate, pampered fingertips that see work only when wielding senbonzakura, proceeds to dig a small crevice in the ground.

Rukia can only watch, stunned to a point where she could only see, and try her best to understand.

It is strange, unnatural, for Kuchiki Byakuya to be the one to do the talking, but he stands and pulls her into a crouch, and presses the something into her palm, and then does just that.

"Here, Rukia."

She looks down, believing with all her heart that she was in the midst of a very, very, very twisted dream, and realizes what those little somethings were.

Seeds.

She looks at the crevice he has created,

And the look of mute disbelief turned almost instantly into one of joyous surprise.

She pours the little shells in, each one so small in size, yet in potential, no smaller than the rest of them.

And together, they pile the soil onto the little hole with all the contentment in the world.

That was a year ago, and in his haste for action, Byakuya has forgotten about the little seedlings that have shyly begun to leave the protection of the soil and extend a pink tendril toward the sunlight.

He looks down, at how his careless feet has crushed the beginnings of the little sakura hope they had planted together.

On another cold, dark, dreary, rainy day, a year later in time, a thousand years later in his anguish, Byakuya lifts his head towards the stormy heavens, and asks for the answers, and for mercy. The heavens are silent. They are not cruel, simply unmerciful.

Something, so like the rain, forms a perfect arc across his perfect face, and melds in perfectly with it.

* * *

I thought I would try a recollection that was just slightly more lighthearted than the rest of the story to prevent myself from getting a complex.

Ugh, my muse is gone, which is ironic, cos I'm listening to Muse right now. This wasn't exactly a very good piece of work. Not really in the mood. It's weird, really. I'm not depressed enough to churn out a nice, reflective chapter, nor happy enough to throw in a few good jokes at their recollections, nor contemplative enough to write some really tragic memories. In fact, I'm just pretty much really tired and feeling really really really crappy.

It's not the good kind of crappy, the kind that gives you inspiration to really make a few good pieces kind of crappy.

It's just an honest to God, really depressing feeling of hopelessness and an onimous sense of bad things to come.

Which makes me sound scary and annoying, and someone who puts people off, but ugh. What can I do? That's seriously how I fee now.

Better chapters in time to come, I hope :)

I din't wanna let this story sit there any longer cos I knew if I did, I would never get down to completing it.

LOVE ALL OF YOU WHO LEFT REVIEWS! :) Sounds kinda despo but that's one of the things that keep this story going.

Tried to put in Reviewer's suggestion of having more dialogue, and I hope you like it, but I can't really imagine them having a lot to say to one another, what with the stilted silences and awkward moment in the Kuchiki house and all, so I see their relationship as being based more on common thought processes, of unsaid conversations, of knowing what the other was trying to say even without them needing to say it.

Of being on the same page.

Well, that's it for now. Hope you've enjoyed it :) Phew, honestly one of the longest ANs EVER. Oh well, I don't really have much left to do. I need some 30 Seconds to Mars to make me feel awesome again. (Now I sound like some anti-socialite who only speaks to PC readers. Damn.)


	6. Urge

It was like repressing an urge.

It went against nature, almost, and it was impossible to contain. Her mind twisted itself, creased itself, forced itself, into a knot, and still the thoughts were always there, chasing her. It was not that easy to escape.

Run, run, run!

What was she running from? Was this the biggest mistake she has ever made?

No.

The biggest mistake has been made and done with – and now, she was paying for it.

A noble. It was so amazing, she wanted to laugh if there was anything amusing about it.

How could it be possible, that one so perfect would want her?

Because it wasn't. She looked like one from long ago, a memory, a crevice, an aching, irrepressible urge, and it was that person from so long ago she had to thank for a brief semblance of a false happiness, but all that was over.

I loved you first, I loved you first.

Yes, she did. And what of it? What of it, but a subconscious reliance on her looks, on all too familiar amethyst eyes, of raven locks and porcelain skin. Of memory, memory, memory.

And he could kid himself, that she was the one he loved, even if all he had was an empty corpse.

And the knowledge eats at her, eats at her, twists her heart into something sallow. A dried out carcass of what once was. The vibrancy, the life, the happiness and color – they are gone now.

Ichigo has remarked how much she has changed, from a time long ago when she had no qualms about bashing him over the head for being a twat. Now all that's left is a cold glare, an empty stare, and the eternal façade of being – a noble.

She really wants to laugh.

Her jealousy has consumed her, consumed her whole.

An irrepressible urge to obtain what once belonged to someone else, like a coveted prize, and the bending backwards to do so.

Rukia is disgusted with herself.

A love built on lies cannot sustain itself. It eats at the very entities that feeds it, until it all collapses like a deck of cards.

For he lies to himself that she is still alive, and she lies to herself that he does indeed love her.

She is tired. She is bored. She is drained. She is at her limit.

She needs to leave before she really does begin to laugh, because to do so would be an acknowledgement of all that has gone wrong, of what a twisted madness this all was.

She was not beautiful, no more than she was adorable, or lovely, or the hundred other ugly adjectives used to describe those who had such an impossible allure.

She doesn't think she could stand to look at Orihime again.

Such beautiful, innocent beauty, such a bright, sunny desposition.

Such an obsession with Ichigo.

She wishes them all the best, even as she thinks about the vibrant colors they would have on their child's head. She wants to laugh.

And she is blind.

She is blind to a need behind his eyes, the adoration behind each poignant, hooded sarcasm, the burning desire behind his outward crass nature.

He is crazy about her.

Who would not be?

She was addicting.

Her presence, her eyes, her throat, her voice, her laughter, her steps, her anger, her frustration, her ignorance, her excitement.

The way her eyes flashed before she brings a sketchbook upon his dumb skull. The way she laughs in a drunken stupor. The way she keeps to herself when she is upset. The way she is shielded by her own feelings of worthlessness that keeps out attachments to anyone, anyone, and he is almost glad of this because it keeps her away from everyone.

She is blind, and it is funny how the people she envies would kill to take her place.

And above all, there is a irrepressible urge for pain.

Pain is a reminder, above all, of all things wrong, and all the way things should be.

And so she runs, trying to forget, to not think about Captain Kuchiki Byakuya, and Shirayuki slashes, again and again, and her fingernails gouge deep into flesh in an attempt to cut him out of her mind.

Needless to say, she fails miserably.

She wants to laugh at the futility of it all.

"Ah, Rukia-san. Here again?"

Benihime sneers in derision at the stupidity of shinigamis.

* * *

This is a little warped, but it was fun to write.

Hope you enjoyed it, I'll probably be reverting back to my normal style next chapter (I have a style?)

I know the progress of the story is kinda slow, so I should probably speed it up by dwelling less on their convoluted emotions.

All the resolutions for the next chapter.

Comment! :)


	7. Differences

Rukia grasps onto the porcelain cup before her with all the desperation of one clinging onto the last vestiges of sanity. Her grip is unbroken, even as her hands tremble in vain effort to stop their shivering. The tea in the cup splashes, ripples, shattering the reflection of a face contorted with pain, anguish, and above all – confusion.

Here, kneeling on the floor before a table that has been the meeting place of a hundred drink and chat sessions, so steeped in a time of her life where she vaguely remembered as fun, of easy companionship and conversation that was not so incredibly tense. At the back of her mind she realizes she runs to Urahara every time she has a problem, and it is a source of constant incredulity with her peers that he does not seem to tire of hearing her problems.

He is like the older brother she thought she would have – joking, kind, concerned, and undeniably smarter than what he was letting on. Always helpful, with an added dash of dark, sarcastic humor.

"_Byakuya nii-sama?"_

_She is hesitant, but curious. Her voice trembles in fear of breaking the silence, of shattering the peaceful serenity that is so rare to her esteemed brother._

"_Hm. Yes, Rukia?"_

_She wants to sigh in relief. And he – he is content. Better than that, he is at peace. In his own garden, temporarily free of the burden of paperwork, the next mission weeks away, indulging in one of his favorite past times with his beloved sister, lover, friend. The smell of cherry blossoms pervade his senses, but this time it is tinged with the irrepressible scent of jasmine petals, and he is amused with the irony of it all._

"_I was just wondering… What do you think Hisana-nee-sama and I differ the most in?"_

_The question is uncertain. It is blatantly obvious it has been mulled over for days, perhaps even weeks, tossed and turned around till it could no longer be held in the recesses of such an inquisitive mind. The strange phrasing, the formal language – it was all evidence of the amount of time she had spent in the company of it._

_He finds it oh so adorable._

_He laughs._

_Rukia thinks it is the most beautiful sound in the world, a deep, rumbling bass that cuts through the stillness of the afternoon with all the delicacy of fragile ice. It reminds her of wood nympths in lush glades, serenading in a heavenly chorale. For a fleeting moment, she believes she could stand there, listening to such beautiful vibrations for the next hundred years._

_Byakuya laughs because it reminds him that even though she had been raised a noble, even though she acted like one, she was still, mercifully still, the adorable child he'd picked up at the shinigami academy. He laughs because the question reveals to him the innocence of a child a thousand years younger. He laughs as he muses about how awfully pretty he finds her at the moment._

"_Well –"_

_No reason to end the moment too soon._

"_Hisana –"_

_Rukia waits._

"_She was a trifle taller than you."_

_Byakuya continues on his stroll, leaving Rukia seething in amused indignation._

The shoji door slides open, and the normally goofy expression is missing from the orange head's face.

"I am going to kill that bastard."

The cup trembles and shatters. Tea flows from her fingertips, even as the setting sun illuminates and bloodies her untainted arms. She flies into the waiting embrace of her best friend, eyes streaming with the tears of a thousand sorrows.

He muses about how awfully pretty he finds her at the moment.

* * *

Because I just took height and weight today and am not entirely satisfied with the results.

Review! I appreciate every single one of your comments, really. You guys are an amazing bunch :)


	8. Conflict

**Conflict**

And she wants him.

The days of enforced isolation has brought about not the clarity in mind that she desired, but rather the murky beginnings of obsessive longing. She needs him around, needs to see his dark hair drape perfectly around his shoulders, see the piercing gray eyes send a servant into hysteria, watch the graceful actions that should have been effeminate but is peculiarly not.

She looks at past days of sitting around, desperately waiting for news of his return, being torn apart every time he spoke to another female, furtively waiting behind pillars in hopes of catching a glimpse of his departure to the human world, with a near fondness bordering on nostalgia.

Anything, anything but this. This aching hunger for news, this overwhelming desire for contact, any sort of evidence that it wasn't all a dream, that he was still there, that he still remembered her, thought about her.

Of wondering if he was thinking of her.

And yet, despite her dislike for the current situation, of her self-decreed exile towards all that was glorious and perfect and wanted, of her self-denial of everything that mattered, it did not mean she was ready for this.

It did not represent a wish of any sort for a situation as steeped in danger and uncertainty as the one that lay before her, the dread and vague feeling of treading on icicles, the half formed thoughts of shunpo-ing away as quickly as she could in the opposite direction.

It did not mean that Urahara had any right to rip away all forms of stability she might have somehow gathered in the past few days with four simple, decisively brutal, seemingly innocuous words.

"Your brother is here."

* * *

She hides beneath a sakura tree.

Sode no Shirayuki is never far from her reach, and at that moment she sat, resplendent in all her usual glory of poignant beauty, on the grass at less than an arm's length. Today she is silent. The zanpakutou and its master need no further communication than that of the bond already existing between them, and even the heart of ice can understand Rukia's need for silence.

She needs the time to settle down, to contemplate, to marshall her thoughts, but the sickeningly sweet smell, pervasive and familiar, distracts her terribly. The beauty of the pinks against the whites with the yellows pulls her eye and therefore her mind from any possible epiphanies.

There is a quiet elegance, a sort of uncaring self-awareness in the way the blossoms fall, quietly and delicately to the ground, making not the slightest noise while gracing the garden with unparalleled beauty. She is not in the least amused at the contrast of her loud, gawky, awkward gestures, her lack of subtlety in the most annoying of fashions, juxtaposed against a scene of such refined sophistication.

It reminds her of things she would rather forget, and she believes it to be horribly unfair that such a reminder should be thrust at her in so apparent a way.

She is running from a confrontation and she knows it. Call her a coward but you'll never find her backing down from a fight. But this – this is a different kind of conflict altogether.

This is the battle of her soul against her mind, of her conscience against the materialization of all her deepest, darkest desires. This is her crass, noticeable, unenviable, disgusting lack of beauty made real in a way that is the hardest to choke down. This is a rock next to a diamond, spring water next to mud, forced courtesy(failed) next to effortless charm.

A representation of all she feared.

She has never backed down from a fight, but this is a whole new kind of conflict, and she is not ready to deal with the consequences of her sin. Just yet.

* * *

A/N; As you guys can probably tell (or not), I'm really trying to get the story moving although I don't exactly have a clear outline where to. This means a little less dwelling on their thoughts, or at least a little more in the direction of actual development to the story.

I wasn't in my usual story writing mood when I did this, namely, intensely emo and depressed and halfway suicidal, dying to pour my woes to something but with nothing but my bolster at hand. Normally I write with certain people in mind, or just emotions I'm trying to express.

Today was a little different. I was thinking of someone, but somehow that person didn't seem to affect the story a great deal(maybe stylistically?). It was mostly just a few ideas I've been toying with for awhile(yeah, I know, how sick are you of that phrase?), and decided to materialize while I was at it. It's 4:57 in the morning, the darkness before the night, which is when I come up with my masterpieces(if you can even call them that).

So you guys can probably tell it isn't the same as the previous chapters. I don't know about this, tell me if you like it. I'm kind of too drained to judge.

I wasn't planning on writing a chapter until the mood hit me, but I was reading through all the previous reviews, and you guys are really just too nice for me to not sit down and type something out. Especially JollyBigSis, who's been an AMAZING reviewer and who's been on of my main motivations to keep writing :)

I was going to do a chapter on them and their zanpakutous(particularly Rukia cos Sode no Shirayuki is just -) especially now that the Zanpakutou arc is on(is it still? Haven't caught up in awhile)

Once again, do tell me if you like it, and comment and review and favourite(haha) and comment! :)


	9. Silence

There was a time when she would run to him at the slightest thing, when her voice would pitch over in excitement at her anxiety to impress him, to have him know, to have him acknowledge her. She would run, hair in a tangle, knees scabbed, tripping over rough stones, propriety forgotten at her dogged determination to get to him written all over her face, towards his office. Her legs would carry her, thud thud thud on the grassy floor like a metronome, each step bringing her just a little, just a little, just a little bit closer to his perfection.

Those times have passed. Now she no longer turns to him for comfort, and he no longer seeks her out to give it. The easy grace and trust is gone, the conversation stymied, the chemistry missing. Her eyes no longer shine with vibrant glee, but are dim with disappointed hopes.

She wishes to let him know, but Rukia doesn't really think he cares anymore.

He is silent.

That is how he is, and even he believes that is how he always will be.

The freezing of the human heart is a tragic thing, all the more exacerbated by the fact that it was through a heavenly prank, a bitter joke played upon an unfortunate mortal – for that is who he is after all, nothing but a mere mortal subject as a plaything for the higher powers.

He would trade his life and the next dozen to be able to piece together the patterns of his own life.

He is silent.

Because that is what they made him, it is what they desire, demand. It is what he is expected to be, and he has long since given up on being anything else. He is the image he presents, he is the persona they need him to be, he is the sacrificial lamb on the alter of duty, he is the one who will carry their burdens for them because no one else deserves to suffer like he does.

The first lines of heartache, the first seeds of brokenness, were sown long ago, from the time he decided to forsake his right to happiness.

He is silent.

It is necessary to be so, he has concluded, because human relationships befuddle him so. They bewildered his poor, logical mind, confound him with a dozen subtle innuendos and bury him within a conundrum of hysterical issues.

He fails to understand the importance of consolation, of praise, of words of encouragement. He does not see the point in anger, in frustration, in the wasteful action of tears.

Human relationships mess him, confuse him.

He is a pillar, a dry, barren dessert amidst a waterfall, the only one who doesn't fit in, who holds it all up, and in doing so, begins to lose his humanity.

He never thought he would love her, but when he did it was beautiful. It was beautiful in its confusion and never ending uncertainties.

It was delightful in its intricacies that escaped his mind, yet his eyes, so sharp in spotting the weakness of a hollow, is pitifully pure at how his silence has choked his sister into a similar fate of muteness.

* * *

A/N: If you think the ending was abrupt, you're right. It was meant to be an absurdly long chapter cos I was in the mood, but I lost it halfway.

I've been trying to get the whole Zanpakutou chapter up but it doesn't seem to come out right, and so the idea is just left to languish in the blank, non-artistic recesses of my brain.

If you wonder why updates are sporadic and sparse, well I don't have the motivation! REVIEWS HELP. THANK YOU :


	10. Ask

_At the beginning;_

He wondered why he had adopted her.

All he can remember, is the vague impression of the pain, the mind numbingly, heart wrenchingly intense pain, that never seemed to let him go any minute of any hour of any day. All he can recall, was the sinking, sinking despair, a dark chasm, a gaping void, growing and gnawing and eating away at all that he was, day after day after day after day.

All he knew was a thousand memories fading too fast, of her scent, her eyes, the way her hair fell over her eyes in concentration or the elegant, intricate movements of her hands. Every waking moment was an overwhelming tragedy, and the pain was so great he thought he would die. His longing had taken over and devoured his entire being, and all that was left was an empty shell, and it took all that he was and more than he could, to just move and act and pretend like it was all okay and everything was fine.

He remembers he did not have the strength for any more emotions, not his poor wretched heart, so scarred and hurt and bleeding. And so the tower of ice ascends towards the skies of his eternal façade.

And then he saw her.

There was a mild restlessness, a sudden urgency engulfing his senses. It told him to _move now_! _Quick_! Before she is gone, before this amazing entity vanishes like an apparition in the desert, like the mirage of an oasis before the thirsty.

Her presence was unbelievable, an undeniable miracle. At the back of his mind he remembers her words of a sister, of an impassioned plea at her deathbed, to find, to save, to rescue. He vaguely remembers how her sister had eaten her whole, how she had consumed the woman he loved. He remembers how he had hated her.

And yet now, now, at that moment, at that instant, she was no curse from the past, her face was no wretched harpy. She had come to him, ascended from the abyss of his despair as an angel, so beautiful, so ethereally perfect, so astoundingly present, like a blessing, like an act of penance from above at all the bullshit he has had to take over the years.

He restrains himself from running out, from touching her, from crushing her to his chest just to ensure she was not ephemeral, she was not some illusion his worn out soul had conjured to keep him from spiraling into the depths of insanity that were never too far away.

He swallows his words, his longing, his impatience, and calmly, calmly, just as how he has been the past hundred years, calmly enquires after her.

* * *

_It takes time to create perfection;_

He wonders when it has all changed.

He wonders when the inquiries of her absence has turned into more than the perfunctory show of concern.

He wonders when the quiet glimpses, the turning of the head to look at her, to rest his eyes upon her visage, have moved from a longing to see his past beloved's face, to an actual desire to see _her_, to look at _her_, to see the way _her_ eyes dance with a foreign happiness that was so rare in Hisana, to see what she was doing, to understand where her laughter or tears or words had stemmed from.

He wonders when the mealtime conversations have transitioned from uncaring questions into something more, into an insight at her life, of which he was perpetually starved of.

He wonders when the irritation at her constant fraternizing with his lieutenant and the orange haired _ryoka_ has shifted from anger at her disregard for the status of the Kuchiki family into something darker, the intense jealousy of a lover, the overwhelming, unstoppable flow of disappointment at not being good enough for her, of not being the only one for her.

He wonders when his eyes had begun roaming without the expected nostalgia, but a primal desire he does not hasten to identify.

* * *

_And he shall burn forevermore;_

He sits by her shrine.

He remembers a century ago, when, blinded by grief, he had erected this in honor of the woman he swore never to forget. When the pain of death was still fresh, how he had sworn and been assured in the knowledge that he would never, ever be able to open his heart to another.

How he believed his heart to have been flooded and sealed behind doors, condemned to the reprehensible task of mourning, mourning, mourning.

And yet, and yet.

He sits by her shrine. The peace he is used to has vanished. He does not feel comforted, nor the wistful longing slightly numbed over time. He does not relish the thought of having hours to spend, confessing and unburdening his sins in her presence. He does not find solace in her wide eyed, violet stare.

He finds himself thinking of another pair of eyes, so similar yet diverse, another pair he would willingly stare into for the remaining years and more. He is hunched by the weight of the confessions he must now tell her.

Perhaps it is a realization that has been creeping up over time, or perhaps it is a fact that has been obvious to all except him. He knows it is a fact that he cannot deny, and as he sinks with the weight of his sins, of this love that is so sweetly wrong, he muses that perhaps it is the way it should have been from the beginning.

After all, they have so much more in common.

Hisana had always been a fragile flower, prone to sickness, and finally succumbing to it in death. But more than that, her actions had always been delicate, her movements refined and subtle as befitting a lady of her stature. She had brought new feelings into his heart, but never, never new life.

She was an ice sculpture, beautiful in the rendering, meant for the beholding of the eyes but never to be held, an ephemeral, temporal presence that would breathe into you the cold wind of lust and love and desire and enlightenment, before fading away into a desolate, deadened pool. And just like a sculpture crafted from ice, she sucked away the heat from everyone present.

Rukia, sweet Rukia, on the other hand, was aloof, crass and clumsy.

She was a fire, crackling and merry, burning herself up with a flammable passion, giving heat and joy and companionship to everyone around her.

She would never match the grace her sister seemed blessed with. Her silence in the Kuchiki manor was an enforced sentence, just waiting to be broken in the company of her less civilized friends. Her actions were blunt, her arms found ways to shatter the antiques around her, the company of which Byakuya was not in the least reluctant to part with if it meant being able to see her sheepish smile for those few more seconds.

She was vulgar, like a rag with rough, unsewn edges. Despite the beauty of her fighting, the end of a match also marked the finale of her swirling pirouettes and fluid motions. The end of the match heralded the breaking of beer bottles, the drunken chatter and inebriation that followed with each victory march, the complete and utter letting go of herself to pride and complacency.

Yet she would pull herself together and extract from her depths the basic modicums of elegance at the family functions he thoughtlessly burdened her with. More than once, he had sat in the corner, fascinated, as his little sister would step into a ballroom looking so like yet unlike her sister.

It was impossible to mistake them, for the demure docility that Hisana presented, the submissiveness that sickened him to the stomach, was oddly lacking in Rukia. Her head would bow in respect, her words would be subservient like she had been taught, but behind it all, lurking at the back of each reply and acquiescence, he thought he could detect a dark humor, a bitter mockery at the stupidity of the old doddering elders in her false acceptance.

He liked it. He relished each revelation of rebelliousness, because it pulled the two of them closer, whether she realized it or not.

She was a fighter, and he, he was a warrior long since beaten by a million rules and regulations and the scar of a deceased wife. But fighters are fighters are fighters, and despite all his surrenders, aside from all his fears, he saw a similar rebellious streak and appreciated it for what it was.

And as he begun to realize the beauty in her awkwardness, then too he began to see the whispers of grace at the periphery of her movements.

Her hands, gentle with the jasmine blossoms in the summer(oh how he hated those blooms at their fortune of being caressed with those loving hands). Her hair, soft and wavy and luscious, darker than the midnight sky, more enchanting than the deepest ocean, tucked behind her ear when she was bent over paperwork(and his fingers ache to push it back for her when it falls, but she always tends to it before he can, and he, he always restrains himself. Like he should. Like a Kuchiki should).

Her eyes, shining with glee as she beholds a juice pack, a goddamn contraption the likes of which he has never mastered(he hates how the one to bring her such happiness should be Ichigo, and thinks about how much he would like to watch the ryoka brat suffer), or her, just awoken, pulled from her own personal dreamland into the world of the waking, grumpy, irascible, but always, always beautiful(and he thinks about how much he wishes he could arise with her, in his arms, or how his soul cries out to be the one that puts a wistful smile on her face while she is dreaming).

There are days, most days, that Byakuya is saddled with the unbelievable bondage of his sin, and he is choked with shame and digust. And yet there are others, days where he does not feel like caring, when staring at Hisana's image does not bring about guilt, but a slight rising of injustice at all that she has denied from him in life, and cemented in death. On those days, he humbly, hesitantly, shyly, quietly, behind closed doors, begs the question if this, indeed, was so wrong.

* * *

A/N: This is terribly unhewn, it was just a random inspiration I couldn't get out of my head. I just suddenly thought of how Byakuya must have felt at that point of time, the moment when he saw Rukia after decades and decades of pure misery and depression.

Yes, I do realize this is probably sub standard work because... yeah well.

But it's a pretty long chapter, which is good I guess cos it means more for you guys, the darling readers, and it also means I'm starting to move out of the quagmire of random snapshots.

Hope you enjoy! Unfinished, rough, disembered and all :)


	11. Fallen

_If this is what you want, you can have it all._

_For I have nothing else to give._

She looks up.

(Those eyes) are filled with admiration.

He struggles to contain the question. He tells himself he doesn't want to know, that he doesn't need to. He tries. But it burns his lips and mouth even as he swallows those seeds of doubt she has planted(among many) into his tortured mind.

(They grow)

* * *

_And I'm spinning_

He wants her to know how low he's sunk, how far she's pulled him down. Does she know? Does she know she has reduced him into a shadow of his former self, a pathetic being awash in self esteem issues and self doubt more severe than the self deprecation of a woman? Does she know? Does she know the pain of hazy affection?

(Is it his face?)

_Such _a burden of affection. Those piercing gray eyes. The elegant contours. The luscious dark locks. He knows his own worth.

Her gaiety is astounding(sometimes he thinks it's a facade she puts on to punish him). How could one be so happy? Can she not see him drowning? Can't she hear? The desperate cry for help. He needs her. He needs her to tell him. He needs to know she loves him for him. He needs this, he needs more.

But

He knows he won't believe her.

* * *

When Hisana left

_All the pretty people died_

She left a legacy.

He delved into a world. Dives deeper. And deeper. Submerges himself below the surface. Refuses to come up for air. Air is life and life is hope. He must not hope. Hope leads to love and happiness. And no happiness is worth the pain of its departure.

Then _she_ came along and broke the armor, years of defense crashing down around him like a glass palace of whose demise he delighted in. He doesn't catch himself as his heart leaps in a giddy whirl, he doesn't -

Does she see? Does she see how far he's

Fallen?

_A weak fallen man(a weak fallen man)_

And now he's left with the dregs of a joy depleted, and the haunting question.

Is it his face?

_With the promise of an end._

_

* * *

_

Sometimes he finds her staring blankly at his face, a kind of teasing smile sitting lopsidedly on her lips. He knows she's thinking about just how pleasant his countenance is, and something breaks. He doesn't want this and he never asked for it. If he wasn't perfection he wouldn't be Kuchiki Byakuya but at this very moment he doesn't _want _to be Kuchiki Byakuya but merely a person who can be sure of her affections, that she loves him and not

_a face._

But he pushes the thought away because he will never walk away from this unfounded dilemma.

_Is this who you are?_

He is weak.

_Some sweet violent urge?_

_She_ has made him weak.

And so

"_If this is what you want, take it all_

_I have nothing else to give"  
_

* * *

This he thinks.

But he watches her in the shade of a sakura tree in Ichigo's yard, and he knows he needs more.

He knows he wants to be the one whose embrace she's running into.

* * *

A/N: I am losing my touch. But gosh I do love 30 seconds to mars oh so much.


	12. Observe

There are things in life that are predestined, planned. Things that cannot be changed, controlled. Occurrences that defy the shackles of reason or will. Happenings – that define a lifetime.

She is – but a girl.

Oftentimes her violet eyes are wide open with overflowing innocence and determination. Her soul is like the innermost petals of a lily; pure, white, unmarked. Then _he_ came along and taught her deceit, veiled the feelings behind clouded eyes and glassy smiles. Stole the sincerity right out of her laugh, replaced it with an artificial tinkle. His appearance litters itself with empty promises, a bitter, saccharine tang that refuses to budge. Him. Beauty.

She is but a girl.

She stands(alone) and the gentle moonlight illuminates her skin and hair and lies, and she confesses to the only witness of her most heinous crimes. _Ah, Kaien._

He watches her like the shadowy phantom of the estate, of guilt, of tolerance, of wretched nonchalance. When dawn breaks he will return to his routine and pretend nothing has happened, that his heart hadn't been broken as he watched her soul die(oh byakuya the great pretender), and he will convince her of how little he cares for her.

Yet somehow, he always watches.

* * *

I realize I'm drifting to that land of no plot. I shall do something to amend that soon.

I have always and will always love reviews and the reviewers.


End file.
